Penguin Lost

by Andrey Kurkov

  “Flash your lights,” said Andrey Pavlovich.

  A light went on in the courtyard, the gates opened, and they drove in.

  A man in camouflage fatigues conducted them into the house, where a robust sixty-year-old in jeans and dark blue sweater showed them into a mahogany-furnished lounge.

  “Masha, lay the table,” he ordered, then turning to Viktor and Pasha, “you warriors can wait here, while we confer.”

  Masha wheeled in a trolley of eats, Pasha helped lay the table, and a bottle of brandy, two of vodka and glasses were produced from the bar.

  Ten minutes later Andrey Pavlovich returned grim-faced and weary, followed shortly after by their still-smiling host. Inviting them to table, he set about pouring cognac.

  “Not for me till after the election,” said Andrey Pavlovich, and was given mineral water.

  It was not exactly a cheerful occasion. Pasha looked questioningly at his master before accepting a second cognac. Viktor stuck at one, as did their host.

  *

  On the way back to Goloseyevo, Viktor fell asleep. Roused by Pasha on arrival, he got out, yawning, his one aim being to get back to sleep in his little attic room, only to be jollied into action by a “Make coffee all round”, from Andrey Pavlovich.

  “No sleep for us tonight,” he declared, and went for a cold shower.

  Pasha went up to the nursery to see how Slava was getting on, and returned with the news that he’d nearly finished. It was then 2.30 by the kitchen wall clock.

  Andrey Pavlovich entered, now in a dressing gown, and carrying a radio cassette player.

  “Right,” he said dryly, “I declare the present night sitting of the revolutionary committee to be in session. All got coffee?”

  He switched on the tape recorder.

  … Incriminating stuff’s what we’re after, really incriminating, OK?

  Yeah, but how? With not one bloody computer and staff all doggily devoted?

  Doggy devotion comes dearer, that’s all. You pick your man, bring him to the sauna, and we talk … “Is there anything about his nibs his opponent shouldn’t know?” isn’t a bad line to start with. “To beat your enemy, you must know his weapons.” – Lenin. And you’ve got just two more days, after which …

  But …

  But nothing, Zhora. That arsehole who doesn’t comb his hair, he’s the one to go for.

  “I’ll buy you a comb,” said Andrey Pavlovich, seeing Viktor’s look of concern.

  No joy there – he’s dead from the neck up.

  Switching off, Andrey Pavlovich turned to his coffee.

  “Nice turn of phrase they have, our image makers.”

  “Bastards to a man!” cried Pasha, and receiving a quizzical look, modified it to, “Well, bloody swine, then!”

  “Cost me an arm and a leg, that tape,” said Andrey Pavlovich, “but we’ll save on image management.”

  He turned to Pasha.

  “Ring Tolik to help lift that lot from the nightclub, deprive them of sleep and deliver at the Dump for me and Viktor to interview tomorrow. Search their kit, and bring in a good computer buff for tomorrow evening.”

  Before setting off, Pasha splashed his face with cold water.

  19

  It was 8.00 before Viktor got to bed. He slept late, heavily and headachily at first, but towards midday he was on the Dnieper, alone, walking anxiously around a pool of unfrozen water edged with footprints, waiting vainly not just for Misha to surface but militiaman friend Sergey as well. As if to spite him, there were no fishermen, just the dark patches of their iced-over holes.

  He woke, still tired, and surprised to hear not a sound. He remembered promising to ring Sonya and Nina, but his watch said it was time for a late lunch.

  In the empty kitchen he helped himself to sausage, cheese and butter from the fridge, and made tea instead of coffee.

  On the table in the lounge he found the new portrait of Andrey Pavlovich’s opponent.

  grazziola cosmetics improve

  ot only the face!

  read the glaring caption. Heartened, he toyed, as he ate, with ideas for Andrey Pavlovich’s campaign. The President’s lady ran an aid-the-children fund, which prompted thoughts of another possibility – not terribly original, but original was not what voters went for. What appealed was the instantly recognizable. Like charitable concern. That said more about the character of candidate or deputy than any political process or activity. “Charitable” hinted at a possibility of hand-outs, whether deserved or not.

  Some proposal for Andrey Pavlovich was what he needed. He could then buy press space for it and win popularity.

  His thoughts turned to Tatar Street, Café Afghan, and the young disabled – too young to have fought in Afghanistan – who gathered there. True he’d seen only three of them, Lyosha who had lost his legs here, in Kiev, being one. Still, to be disabled young was both bad and honourable enough to have public appeal.

  Andrey Pavlovich returned shortly before five, clearly not having slept, but cheerful, unstressed, unyawning and back stiff as a ramrod. The image makers had given some account of themselves. Zhora and the twins ran a lottery swindle in Zhitomir; Slava, the computer buff, was a simple lad from Kursk. They had decided to cash in on the election, make a handsome profit on the side. Amongst their effects were a silenced automatic, cocaine, and a mobile phone capable of being used as a bug.

  “What will you do with them?”

  “Slava I’ve let go. The others will suffer. How I’ve yet to decide. We’ll go and visit tomorrow.”

  Judging his moment, Viktor ventured a suggestion he had in mind.

  Andrey Pavlovich showed interest.

  “How many disabled? What do limbs cost?”

  “I’ll find out how many. Maybe Pasha could look into cost.”

  Andrey Pavlovich nodded. Charitable concern – he was all in favour of. And instructing Pasha to wake him in two hours, went to put his head down.

  20

  In Central Universal Stores, Kreshchatik Street, he treated himself to a cheap Chinese umbrella against the drizzle. The cheerful bustle of the place provided a pleasant distraction from the little-relished prospect of visiting Lyosha at Café Afghan. He had a sudden urge to find Svetlana and go again to the kindergarten at night. But reality, or more accurately his sense of it, won the day, and opening his umbrella, he made for a pedestrian underpass, hitched a lift, and fifteen minutes later mounted the ramp to the café, which this time was busier.

  “Fetch yourself a chair, so I don’t get neck-ache looking up,” Lyosha said. “Like a coffee?”

  “I would.”

  “Hey, Whiskers, how about my cappuccino?” a voice complained.

  “On its way.”

  Viktor’s idea was coldly received.

  “I’ll ask around,” Lyosha said dully. “But what does he get out of us, this candidate of yours? Our vote?”

  “No more than that there should be a journalist and a photographer there when the limbs are handed over, if it gets that far. So the electorate becomes aware.”

  “Never thought you would worm yourself into politics.”

  “Other way round. Trapped in a bog of them, and soon to get out.”

  “Really?” Lyosha sounded doubtful. “Still, hang on, I’ll see what the boss man says. It’s a good thing he’s here.”

  He returned five minutes later.

  “In principle,” he said, “the boss man’s pro, but he’d like something from your man in return. Artificial limbs are like evening dress, not something we wear every day. Get us a low-level billiard table, and he can hand over as many artificial limbs as he likes, so long as we don’t have to wear the damned things.”

  Viktor laughed.

  “You could be on, he’s keen on billiards.”

  “Try him, and let me know. Have this card – my number’s changed – and it’s got my mobile. Give me a ring. We’ll have to meet, with your boss and mine there. It’s not long to polling day. Like a cognac?
/>
  “Do you know,” he went on, raising his glass, “I remember those funerals of ours as the best time of my life … You won’t understand … But here’s to the past! It always is better than the present …”

  “And worse than the future.”

  “Who can say?”

  He tossed back his cognac.

  “What is it?” Viktor asked, savouring his.

  “Martell. Friendly humanitarian aid. Once made me dream I was walking again. I woke to find my legs still aching … Still, drink up and get moving – this lot’s rather anti the sound of limb.”

  21

  No sooner had he arrived back, feeling he’d done well and expecting praise, than Viktor found himself speeding through Kiev with Andrey Pavlovich and Pasha, both equally taciturn, in the 4 × 4.

  “Stop!” Andrey Pavlovich ordered suddenly. “Let’s you and I have a look see, Viktor.”

  They were on Victory Avenue opposite the stone animals guarding the entrance to the zoo from which he’d rescued Misha.

  “Forget the zoo, this is what we’ve come to see.” It was a hoarding displaying the variant portraits of Andrey Pavlovich’s opponent, plus caption.

  “What do you think?”

  “It works!”

  “Damned good idea for which my thanks, and these,” said Andrey Pavlovich, handing him a wad of $100 bills.

  “Drive on, Pasha.”

  “Where now?” asked Viktor.

  “The Dump. How about your disabled?”

  “They’ve come up with a counter-request.”

  “Is it expensive?”

  “They’d like a billiard table of a height for players in wheelchairs.”

  “No problem. Mine’s due for replacement. We’ll run it over to them, cut the legs down …”

  *

  The Dump lay deep in a private estate off the Pushcha-Voditsa road. It was surrounded by a tall metal fence topped with coils of barbed wire, and comprised a metal hangar and a three-storeyed brick-built building with windows emitting warm, cheery light.

  A man in combat fatigues opened the forbidding metal gates, and announced their arrival over an entry phone. The metal door of the building buzzed open and they were received by three similarly clad guards.

  Andrey Pavlovich was taken aside for a sotto-voce conversation, and five minutes later, all three of them were conducted down steep steps into a broad, brightly-lit corridor with to right and left rusty iron doors at regular intervals.

  “Who first?” asked their escort.

  “The twins,” said Andrey Pavlovich.

  Leaving Pasha outside, Andrey Pavlovich and Viktor entered a prison cell with two wooden benches, a table and a slop pail. Handcuffed together, the twins were sitting up, evidently woken from sleep by the clang of the door.

  “So, how are my cagebirds?” inquired Andrey Pavlovich. “Any complaints?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Who was it you were talking to in the sauna?”

  “Zhora knows him, we don’t.”

  “We’ll go and ask him then.”

  Next door they found Zhora, visibly battered and chained to a ring so low in the wall that he was forced to kneel.

  Andrey Pavlovich squatted in front of him.

  “Remembered yet who you were talking to in the sauna? Time – like money for your board, my money, $50 per diem – is short. No sense in wasting it. Infringing Snail’s Law’s bad enough. Refusing to talk’s even worse.”

  “Law? What law?” Zhora mumbled.

  Andrey Pavlovich slowly straightened, shaking his head. He looked for Viktor’s response, but Viktor was more or less asleep.

  “Due for discharge,” he told the escort. “Pumped full of dope and dumped in the Dnieper … Ignorance of the Law’s no defence. Come on, Viktor.”

  They stood outside for a while listening to Zhora’s shouts, then went back in.

  “The Godfather,” Zhora confessed.

  “Who’s working for Boxer.”

  Zhora nodded.

  “Good. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  “This Law? What is it?”

  Zhora croaked.

  “Article 5 is what applies: intruding into another’s home for the purpose of ousting him. Punishment: death by drowning.”

  The iron door clanged shut again.

  “Forget the dope, just bung him over South Bridge one night,” Andrey Pavlovich instructed their escort. “And if he makes it ashore, good luck to him.”

  “And the twins?” Pasha asked as they drove back.

  “Impress on them – and I do mean impress – that the next time they show their faces in Kiev it’s curtains. Let them play smart arse in Zhitomir, or Moscow. Sloppy sort of place, Moscow.”

  22

  It was three in the afternoon when Viktor woke. His attic window showed the blue sky and bright sun of Indian summer.

  Meeting Pasha on the stairs, he asked what was happening.

  “The Chief’s gone to bed for an hour. You’re to stay, not go out,” he said.

  Viktor brewed coffee, took it to the kitchen table, then went to answer the phone in the hall.

  It was a TV presenter exploring the possibility of a debate between Andrey Pavlovich and his opponent on National Channel 1.

  He was not available at the moment, Viktor told her, and would ring her back.

  The more he thought about it, returning to his coffee, the less he relished the idea of a TV debate. A verbal exchange with Boxer might well become physical.

  Andrey Pavlovich was quick to see the point.

  “You could suggest having our close advisers in attendance. All of Boxer’s share the same good looks.”

  “That should do the trick. Still, in this last week we must get on with promotion.”

  Andrey Pavlovich rang a number on his mobile, inquired how canvassing was going, listened, then repeated to Viktor what he’d been told.

  “200,000 of your manifesto leaflets distributed; 90,000 rations to pensioners; lists drawn up of all in need and entitled, if I’m elected, to financial assistance; three schools given computer rooms; and lots of less spectacular things. Not forgetting the plus of the artificial limbs. Will that do?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will,” said Viktor, much relieved.

  “And while we’re at it, suggest that that TV woman of yours films me handing the limbs over.”

  “So we’ve actually got some?”

  “In the garage. Four crates from some Swedish charity.”

  “But we’ve taken no measurements.”

  “No time. And they won’t give a bugger anyway – simply take what fits and leave the rest.”

  “How about the billiard table?”

  “We’ve settled that. Lay on transport and deliver.”

  Half an hour later, freshened by a wash and shave, Viktor rang the TV lady, who declared herself only too happy to film the hand-over of artificial limbs for a slot on the news. An hour later four hefty men turned up with a covered lorry and loaded the billiard table and crates of limbs. Viktor climbed in beside the driver, and away they went to Café Afghan.

  23

  Polling Day minus 7

  With half an hour to go before the actual presentation, the crates were opened by an undersized creature reeking of vodka and onion to whom Pasha had slipped ten dollars. Viktor kept up-wind until he had finished, then examined the bubble-wrapped, sticky-taped contents. The leg-and-knee-joint he unwrapped struck him as unusually small, and then it dawned on him: child-sized! And so was the whole consignment! Accompanying documents in English showed the limbs to be the gift of the Save-the-Children-of-Rwanda-Fund, Salzburg. Heaven alone knew how they had ended up in Kiev.

  He turned anxiously to Pasha, who was now showing the crate-unpacker the legs of the billiard table and explaining what had to be done. The latter, looking scared and anything but confident, was nodding thoughtfully. The task proposed was not one of which he had daily working experience.

  Hearing that
the limbs were too small, Pasha panicked, and Viktor felt suddenly back on even keel again.

  “We stick them back in their crates and present the crates,” he said.

  The TV crew were a little late, Andrey Pavlovich a good fifteen minutes. In the end it was decided to film the crates being carried into Café Afghan, which involved carrying them out again, and here the evil-smelling unpacker-packer came into his own, three takes of the carrying in being needed. At last, clean-shaven, tweed-suited Andrey Pavlovich, grey hair gleaming with lacquer, shook hands with the young, legless, manifestly grateful manager of the café. Lyosha, too, had his hand shaken for the camera. Directing the cameraman, a thickset fellow in sleeveless, multi-pocketed jacket, was a tall, leggy female with an attractive but off-puttingly predatory sort of smile. The half hour of filming completed, Andrey Pavlovich handed her an envelope, and she graciously handed him her card.

  “We didn’t want the bloody things anyway,” said Lyosha, learning that the limbs were for children “Best take them back. The billiard table’s what matters.”

  When Andrey Pavlovich declined to take them back, it was decided to add them to the rubbish littering a hillside above Nagornaya Street. Pasha’s man helped.

  24

  Polling Day minus 6

  This time Nina answered the phone.

  “How are you both?”

  The warmth of her response surprised him. “You should come back. Sonya’s been asking for you.”

  “Is she there?”

  “No, outside with the little girl from the next flat.”

  “I’ll be there in a day or two.”

  Drinking his coffee, he pondered her affability. Maybe she was scared he’d kick her out.

  Andrey Pavlovich had left early with Pasha. The house help arrived and set about washing the floors. Later the computer expert called in by Pasha turned up to examine the image makers’ computer. Viktor showed him up to the nursery, then returned to the kitchen. The solitude and relative silence appealed to him. He was glad he was not needed that morning. He found himself thinking of Andrey Pavlovich’s Snail’s Law. For the time being he, Viktor, was himself snug in the shell of a good solid house. Here was calm, quiet, an even tenor of existence. Outside much was astir, and would be for the next six days. After which the lucky snails would be handed new shells, Deputy shells, commensurate with their degree of official immunity, while the unlucky would have to go their separate ways, back to hide and act as if nothing had happened …